O I would sing of love in every tone, The chant of trees, the murmur of a flower, The sigh of winds in some deserted bower Where solitude replaces rapture flown From summer midnights, the tempestuous groan Of torrents, or the song of the new hour, The monotone of a nocturnal shower Tell me of love in laughter, music, moan. I know not if we loved for joy or pain In pale old ages where the yellow flowers Flaunted in tardy sunshine, or the rain Flowing and pallid wept through purple hours. But O Beloved, how sad the springtime seems! Our souls have seen the passing of our dreams. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...POETS ARE BORN NOT MADE by ROBERT FROST JOHANNES AGRICOLA IN MEDITATION by ROBERT BROWNING POETA FIT, NON NASCITUR by CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON THE INDIAN EMPEROR: SONG by JOHN DRYDEN THE RUINED MAID by THOMAS HARDY GIVE HIM HIS DUE by LEVI BISHOP THE BATTLE OF THE FLOWERS by MATHILDE BLIND |